


Badges and 'Brellas

by Ewebie



Series: Guess My Race Is Run [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jae the crafty dragon did this..., M/M, Murder, One bathtub!, Paia's plot bunny attack, Posh Bastard, Soft Smut Sunday, Watch, bucket, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24724510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: This will be a spot for my Soft Smut Sunday bits. They'll all be short, and unlikely to make sense as stand alone pieces. I will update the tags as I go. Individual summaries in the pre-fic notes.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Guess My Race Is Run [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/877377
Comments: 49
Kudos: 198
Collections: JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny Adoptions, Soft Smut Sunday





	1. Watch

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt: Watch**
> 
> _Greg took a sip of wine, eyeing Mycroft over the rim. “What do you want to watch?”_

Greg took a sip of wine, eyeing Mycroft over the rim. “What do you want to watch?”

Mycroft hummed and glanced at the many options scrolling across the screen. “I’m happy with whatever you’d like. You pick something.”

“Oh no. You do this every time. You say you’re ok with what I want, then you spend hours slagging me over it.”

“I do no such thing.”

“Ha!” Greg tossed a piece of popcorn at him. “You absolutely do.”

Mycroft made a dismissive sound. “If you didn’t choose such drivel every time, perhaps I wouldn’t chastise you for your choices.”

Greg rolled his eyes and took another sip of wine. “Fine. Let’s watch  _ Pirates of the Carribean.  _ I’ve been wanting to watch the last in that series.”

“Pirates of the…” Mycroft scoffed. “The ghost captain nonsense? No. Absolutely not.”

“I told you!” Greg laughed, clearly having expected that exact reaction, maybe even offering the suggestion just to be proven right. “Everytime, Myc! Your go. What do you want?”

Mycroft tapped his lip for a moment. “How far along were we in  _ Midsomer Murders _ ?”

“No.” Greg shook his head firmly. “I get way too much murder village in work, thank you. This is supposed to be relaxing.”

“Relaxing?” Mycroft tilted his head. “Did we not have a relaxing time in the Lake District last year?”

“We did. But no one was murdered. Thanks  _ SO  _ much. No. We’re not doing real life simulation. Too close to the bone.” Greg sighed and rolled his head against the back of the sofa. “Right, what about  _ Ghostbusters _ ? They did a reboot of that. It’s supposed to be funny.”

“Ew. No.”

Greg lifted his head with a grin. “Why?”

“No.”

“No wait. You said ‘ew.’ Why ew?”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “Ectoplasm.”

Greg burst out laughing. “Ectoplasm?!”

“Ectoplasm,” Mycroft echoed flatly. “Absolutely not.”

“You have a lot of absolutes going on.” Greg swung his feet up, nudging his thigh before resting them in Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft glared at him for a moment then rested his hands atop them. “So. No ghost captains, no murder villages, no ectoplasm. Lots of no’s.”

Mycroft shrugged elegantly and started rubbing his thumbs along Greg’s instep. “Whatever shall we do?”

He groaned and squirmed. “What do you like to watch?”

Mycroft lifted a brow. Pressed a little more firmly just to see Greg go rather boneless. “You know what I like to watch.”

Greg felt the color flush down from his cheeks to his neck. “Tell me.”

He carefully lifted Greg’s feet so he could slide out beneath them, only to twist and start a slow crawl up the couch. Greg tried not to fumble the wine glass as he set it as far on the table as he could reach.

Greg swallowed as Mycroft reached the end of his crawl, staring up at the self-satisfied grin on his husband’s face. “You know that’s so fucking hot, right?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Is it?”

“You know it gets me going.”

Greg watched Mycroft’s lips as they quirked. “And thus you’ve discovered what I like to watch.”

He brought his hands up to frame Myc’s hips. “Making me squirm?”

Mycroft hummed, tilting his head to skim his nose along Greg’s. “You.” He brushed his lips across Greg’s in a barely there caress that had Greg groaning. “I like watching you.” 


	2. Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Hippo's fault... because I lost a jinx.
> 
> ... But I refuse to take anything seriously.

“Myc…”

Mycroft froze, the knife clenched in his hand. “Greg.”

He felt his eyes go wide as he took in the scene. “What… What the hell have you done?”

“It’s not. Gregory, it’s not what it looks like.”

“I fucking hope not!” He shucked his jacket, tossing it over one of the kitchen chairs as he frowned at the deep crimson stains. “Christ.”

Mycroft let Greg pull the blade from his unresisting grip. “I just… I swear, I just wanted…”

Greg winced, tossing the knife into the sink basin and turning the taps on hot. “Wash. Now.”

“I didn’t think it would be quite so…”

“Red?”

“Messy.” Mycroft started washing his hands, methodically cleaning the dark color from his knuckles and the beds of his nails.

Greg heaved a sigh. “What the hell, Myc? What do you want me to do about this?”

He shot a guilty, hopeful look over his shoulder. “Help me clean?”

Greg groaned. “Clean? How could you… After I told you about my parents!”

Mycroft turned off the taps and reached for the towel in an aborted motion as he noticed the stains already on the fabric. “Out damn spot.”

“This isn’t funny, Myc!”

Mycroft raised a brow.

“It’s not!” Greg insisted. “Don’t you dare make me laugh about this!”

Mycroft tilted his head.

And Greg was biting back a smile. “No. Naughty!”

“Me?”

Greg slowly cuffed the sleeves of his shirt. “Damn straight. Don’t you dare. Pick that up.”

“With the state of me?”

Greg crossed his arms. “How many bloody times do I have to teach you how to deseed a pomegranate?”

“Apparently,” Mycroft gingerly lifted the non-massacred half of fruit. “At least one more.”

“You’re hopeless.” Greg scooped up the remains of the other half. “Honestly.”

“I didn’t grow up as sous chef to famous culinary artists,” Mycroft griped.

“That’s no excuse for stabbing this poor fruit to death.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. And that’s why you keep wrecking your shirts.”

“My shirt?” Mycroft glanced down. “Bugger.”

“One poncy shirt is a small price to pay for produce murder.”

“Gregory.”

He bit back a smile. “Next time, I’m getting the cuffs.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m serious.” He grinned. “Now pay attention this time and you won’t need to visit your tailor every time you need a snack.”


	3. Posh Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is from one of Paia's plot bunnies... (deviates a bit from the original)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fine, you savages! You'll have to accept this instead of pirates.

“All you posh bastards are the same,” Greg whispered. Growled. Bit into the soft skin exposed by the loosened tie and undone buttons.

Mycroft clamped his teeth around his lower lip, stifling a moan. It was bad enough he let Gregory attack him the moment they set foot inside the house. “All of us?”

He could feel the smile against his neck. The hum of agreement. “Little bit of ruffling, all that put togetherness just…”

The scrape of teeth on his earlobe finally set the moan free. But his brain sent up a flag of warning. Something being said… Something didn’t sit. “Wait, wait!” He grabbed Greg by the shoulders and held him out at arm’s length. “All of us?”

Greg grinned, settled his hands on Mycroft’s hips, dipped the tips of his fingers into the waist of his trousers. “All of you.”

Like butter wouldn’t melt… “Have experience in the matter, do you?”

Greg huffed and smoothed a palm down Mycroft’s chest, slowly gathering the end of the tie in his fist. Mycroft felt his shoulders list away from the wall. Greg’s nose brushed along his jaw, nudged under his chin. “Everyone’s a past, sweetheart. Saints and sinners alike.” Then he was clearly working on sucking a bruise into the part of his neck that would definitely show above the collar.

Mycroft whimpered. Sinner. Cad to the bone. “No.” He planted a hand on Greg’s chest and managed to push himself back up against the wall for how sure-footed Greg managed to be. “You’ve never lumped me in with the… The people in your past before.”

Greg’s tongue rolled over his lower lip as he considered Mycroft. “You really want to know? Right now?” That same lower lip slid tantalizingly between his teeth, and Mycroft watched it avidly. “Instead of… Oh,” he leaned a bit closer, forcing Mycroft back further against the wall. “Other things?”

No. “Yes.” Damn. Mycroft felt his face heat. “What other ‘posh bastards’ have you bedded, and how, pray, are we the same?”

“It was one,” Greg tapped his chest with a finger for emphasis. “It was ages ago. And you’re not the same.”

“Just the one?”

“Just the one.”

Oh no, what if he knew him? The general level of wealth and gentry that Greg tended to refer to as posh was a small enough group. They all travelled in similar circles. They were from the same schools. The same clubs.

“Stop panicking,” Greg cupped his chin gently in one hand, propping himself off the wall with the other. “He didn’t work in government.” He pressed an almost chaste kiss to his lips. “He was a bloody tailor.”

Mycroft groaned for an entirely non-sexy reason. “Why?”

“Because you’re always so buttoned up and polished, with your waistcoat and umbrella. Because you love a bit of rough. You get all flustered with affection. And fall to bits swearing like a sailor in your public school accent.” Greg nuzzled up against the side of his face.

“No… not…” Mycroft waved a hand and whined as Greg started feathering the lightest brush of lips along his jaw. “Why on earth did you fuck Harry Hart?”

Greg froze at the name. Or at the swearing. Either way, it’d had its effect. He slowly pulled back so he could see Mycroft’s face. “Now that is a name I haven’t heard in an age.” He pursed his lips as if biting back a grin. “Know him, do you?”

“That trollop is not a tailor,” Mycroft muttered viciously.

Greg burst out laughing. “Trollop? Myc, darling, you cannot call everyone I’ve ever dated a trollop!”

“I can, and I shall.” Harry Hart, he thought darkly. Older than Gregory by only a handful of years, ages ago would have to refer to when Greg was in his twenties? The thought of him, younger, brighter, so full of potential and youthful mischief - Mycroft growled. It wasn’t fair.

Greg pressed a kiss to the moue of displeasure on his face. “Maybe I was the trollop,” he murmured against Mycroft’s lips. “Did you ever think of that?”

“He has a type!” Mycroft snapped. “I cannot believe you’re so calm about all of this. He is deeper in the government than I will ever be!”

Greg blinked. “So that one time he fitted me for a suit was what…?”

Mycroft felt himself flush angrily. “He did what?!”

Greg’s brows shot up and he purposely pressed his lips together for a moment. “Myc… It was a very, very brief fling. Ok?”

He frowned. Brief was too long. “No.”

“Not much more than a… Brief indiscretion, alright?”

“It’s not alright,” he grumbled, not at all placated by the notion.

“I have a bit of a type, Myc. It’s why I was hot for you for an age. And it’s never been a problem before.” He took Mycroft’s face between his palms and pressed a kiss to his forehead then the tip of his nose. “Let’s not make mountains of molehills, eh?”

Mycroft sighed, pouting. Ugh, he was pouting. “You realise he’s taken up with his latest protege? Some South London upstart who is practically half his age.”

Greg was grinning again.

“What?”

Greg shook his head.

Infuriating. “What?” Mycroft demanded again.

“He does have a type.” He waggled his brows. “Have I met his protege then?”

Mycroft grumbled. “You might have arrested him.”

Greg burst out laughing again. “What’s the little shit’s name then?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. It did nothing to stop Greg’s mirth. “Garry,” he muttered finally. The little prick was an absolute disaster to services. Cheeky and brash. And Harry must have lost the run of himself to bother with him.

“Garry?” Greg huffed at a few more laughs.

“Goes by Eggsy,” he said with finality.

Greg stopped laughing and bit his lip as his eyes lit up. “That prick robbed a panda car!”

“He’s done worse.”

Greg’s expression of delight didn’t wane. “Myc. Sweetheart. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll throw him in a cell for an ASBO.”

“No,” he frowned. “Won’t work. It’d never stick.”

“But…” Greg leaned closer. Easing his weight across Mycroft’s front. “If it would make you happy,” he nosed back under his jaw, kissing his way down to Mycroft’s collarbone. “I’ll do it.”

“He’d… He’d have you disappeared,” Mycroft whispered at the ceiling.

“He tried that already. Didn’t work. Nope.” He pulled at Mycroft’s shirttails, sliding a hand along the small of his back, skin to skin. “I’m gonna do it.”

“You… You cannot…”

“Mind’s made up. S’gonna happen.”

Mycroft clenched his hands in the front of Greg’s shirt with a groan. “Please.”

“Maybe,” he murmured into Mycroft’s throat. “You’ll have to tie me to your bed. Just to be sure.”

“Gregory…”

“Make sure I don’t run off and do something silly.”

Mycroft buried a hand in Greg’s hair, tugging his mouth up to meet his own. “You are ridiculous.”

“Mmn. But I’m yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Plot bunny original:**  
>  I'm convinced that Harry Hart and Mycroft dated at one point.


	4. Bucket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can comfortably say that this is Jae's fault. And Mrs. C's.

“Bollocks!” Greg pushed into the tiny cabin, Mycroft practically on top of him, following behind. He dumped their bags unceremoniously by the door and shivered as he tugged his sodden gloves off with his teeth.

Mycroft wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering violently. “Well that was an unmitigated disaster.”

Greg’s grin was closer to a wince. “Would have been better without the sleet, that’s for damn sure.”

“And the hike,” Mycroft added with disdain. “What on Earth are you doing?”

Greg glanced up from where he was fumbling with the zip of his coat. “What does it look like I’m doing? Everything is soaked, Myc. Soaked and fucking freezing.” He tossed his coat over the empty kitchen island to join his gloves. Then his hat. Then his scarf.

“It’s barely above freezing in here. Is the power even on?”

Greg hesitated. Oh God. What if there was no power? They’d have to build a fire in the fireplace before anything warmed up. Christ, they were only eight hours into the holiday and it was already rubbish. He watched as Mycroft tested the lightswitch next to the door and blew out a long breath of relief as the kitchen light flicked on. “Thank God.”

“If the power is on, why is it so cold?” Greg could hear Mycroft’s teeth chatter when he paused, Mycroft’s brain catching up with his own question slowly. “The heaters are off until we arrive to turn them on. Good Lord.”

Greg crossed the small space and started to work on Mycroft’s coat. “C’mon, out of the wet stuff. We’ll get you warmed up in no time.” Mycroft’s coat joined Greg’s on the island.

“I don’t believe I can feel my fingers.”

He snorted, but quickly reconsidered. Mycroft seemed to run cold. His lean frame didn’t put out heat the way that Greg’s did and his feet were forever freezing cold in bed. “Right. You go suss out the heater, make sure to turn on the immersion, and we’ll get you into a hot shower as soon as possible.”

“And what will you be doing?” Mycroft arched a brow, all the condescension lost in a full body shudder.

Greg pointed at the hearth. “I’m going back to analogue.” He tried to rub a bit of heat into Myc’s arms. “Fire in the fireplace. Hot showers. Maybe a hot toddy. And we’ll be right as rain.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Do not mention the rain.”

Greg huffed as Mycroft headed towards the only sensible place for the utilities. “You mean just like the weather man?”

“Horrid,” came the call from the back hall.

“Right.” Greg blew into the curl of his hands. “Fire.” He set to work laying out the kindling and wood in the hearth, feeling extra lucky for the small stack of newspapers and long, strike anywhere matches. He was still hunkered down on the floor, blowing gently on the fledgling flame when Mycroft reappeared. “This will be up and running in fifteen. It can probably heat the whole room faster than anything.” Mycroft made an uncomfortable sound and Greg turned. “What’s wrong?”

Mycroft frowned. “There is good news and there is bad news.”

Greg’s brows shot up. “Oh boy.”

“The good news is that there’s not an immersion but a Triton; the hot water is on demand.”

That was actually very, very good news. “Alright,” he prompted slowly.

“The bad news,” he flinched as he shivered again. “There’s no shower.”

“What?” No shower? That made absolutely no sense. The rental agency had said ‘All Modern Conveniences.’

“There is a bathtub instead.”

“Oh.” Greg nodded encouragingly, thoughts of a hot soak with Myc flitting temptingly through his head.

“It is… Rather… Small,” he looked, not exactly perplexed, but maybe perturbed.

“How small is rather small?” Greg asked, hopes of a sexy bubble bath dashed at Mycroft’s renewed frown.

“Small enough that it might be cramped for just one of us.”

“Shit.” Greg blew out a breath and glanced at the fire. One of the logs was starting to catch. It would still be a long time before they were both warm. And at this point, it was less about comfort and more about safety. His hands were pale with the cold and damp, but Mycroft still had a blue tinge around his lips. Right. He pushed up with a groan, his knees creaking with stiffness. “Come on. We’ll work something out.”

Mycroft looked doubtful, but took Greg’s hand and followed him back to the loo.

“Shit,” Greg repeated, glaring at the tub. It was small. More of a bucket than a bath. Some idiot had clearly found the thing and thought the hammered copper finish was quaint and the shape kitschy. Horribly impractical for a grown adult, and definitely uncomfortable for one with legs like Mycroft. “Right. Sod this.” Greg crossed the room and turned on the hot tap, checking to be sure it was uncomfortably warm as the basin began to fill. “You’re frozen solid. You’re getting in there until you’re more pink than blue.”

“But…” Mycroft bit back another tooth-rattling shudder. “Your temperature has likely fallen far lower from normal than mine.”

Greg scoffed at him and started peeling layers of drenched clothing from his shivering form. “And I can still use my fingers, eh?”

By the time he’d reached the shoes, the laces were beginning to be a challenge. Mycroft swatted his hands away. “Mind your own clothes. We’re both getting in. You are shivering now.”

He was. The damp was settling in his bones like a gnawing cold and he sniffed hurriedly. He cast a quick glance at the sorry excuse for a tub. “Fine. Fine, fine, we’ll… We’ll sort something out.” He stripped as quickly as he could, then returned to help Mycroft with his belt and jeans.

“Fair warning,” Mycroft mumbled as Greg managed the button and zip of the fly. “I am incredibly cold right now.”

Greg chuckled. “We’ve been shagging for a year. I know you well enough.” He finally managed the last of Mycroft’s clothes and pulled him over to the tub. Then hesitated. Considered the geometry of it. That it was his plan and not Mycroft’s was a testament to how miserable Mycroft had to be. He checked the water temperature, hissed a bit at the heat, and turned off the tap. “Ok. So… I’ll… I’ll get in and then you. Alright?”

Mycroft furrowed his brow. “Get in how?”

“You’ll just have to… I dunno. Sit on top of me.”

Mycroft’s brows shot up, a scandalised look on his face. “I’ll do what?”

“Sit on me,” Greg repeated with conviction, and then climbed into the tub. It was a blessing that the sides were quite high. The water displaced wouldn’t slosh over the top, and hopefully they’d get their torsos under the water. He settled, his back pressed flat against one side, his knees peaking over the water from having to bend them. “C’mon,” he held out a hand, intent on helping Myc in. “Get in, the water’s fine.”

Mycroft fretted for another moment. “We won’t fit.”

“We will.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Mycroft Holmes, get in this tub, or so help me…”

Mycroft took his hand and very, very carefully placed his first foot on the floor of the tub, between Greg’s spread knees. Once he was standing in the bath, he gave Greg another distressed look. “Now what?”

“Just,” Greg reached up, settling his palms on Mycroft’s hips. “Sit. Right there. Between my feet.”

“My legs will-”

“Probably have to hang over the sides,” Greg grinned. “Or I’ll throw them over my shoulders and find more than one way to warm you up. Who cares, Myc? Get in the water.” He turned Mycroft around and tugged.

It took more finesse than either of them probably had on reserve, but Mycroft managed to lower himself into the tub. His back pressed firmly to Greg’s chest and his legs folded, barely fitting in the remaining space. “This is ridiculous.”

Greg wrapped his arms around him, his chin hooked over Mycroft’s shoulder. “Ridiculous or not, it’s very warm.”

Mycroft huffed and shivered, some of the chill working it’s way out. “This was not a terribly nice start to our first holiday.”

Greg hummed. “It’ll make a good story one day.”

Mycroft barked out a laugh. “How would that go? Oh, remember that one holiday to the Scottish coast that was so lovely and sleeting?”   


“Yes,” Greg pressed a kiss to the corner of Mycroft’s neck. “The one where we hiked the hour to the cottage, uphill both ways, in snow and ice, because the road was blocked and we were too stupid to turn around.”

“Cleverly, the cottage had a wonderful, electric water heater.” Mycroft let his head tilt back, resting more securely against Greg.

“Shame they didn’t have a bathtub… Just a bucket for us to share.”

“A bucket?!” Mycroft cried. “That’s generous. A small saucepan.”

Greg smothered a chuckle into Mycroft’s skin. “See. It’s already a great story.”

Mycroft hummed, unconvinced. “Have you given thought to how on earth we are going to get out of here?”

“Very, very carefully.” He ran his nose, still chilled, but warming fast, behind Mycroft’s ear. “Then we’re going to go stretch out by the fire. And I’m going to feed you warm food, and hot whiskey. And when you’re all warmed up and soft and cosy, I’m going to make sure that you can never, ever tell anyone about what we did after the shared bath in the bucket.”

“You are eternally optimistic, Gregory.”

He nipped at Mycroft’s ear. “I’m just creative, love. I’m happy to work for what I want.”

And Greg was as good as his word. When Mycroft’s skin was pink all over and both of their fingers had pruned, Greg carefully extracted them from their precarious positions in the tub. They dried and retrieved fresh pajamas from their luggage. Then Greg fixed dinner, simple soup and rolls, eaten on the sofa Greg had moved incredibly close to the hearth. He made them hot whiskeys with lemon and dragged extra blankets and pillows onto the couch. And once Mycroft was, in fact, warm all over, soft and comfortable, he set about making sure that Mycroft Holmes would never think about this holiday without blushing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I refer you all to this twitter chain: https://twitter.com/jae_blaz/status/1300866335983902721 )


End file.
